


Consequences

by Randomfandoms389



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Butt Plugs, Desk Sex, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Sex Toys, USUK - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21818254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomfandoms389/pseuds/Randomfandoms389
Summary: “We-ll,” America sing-songs. “If you don't think you could get it up again, old man…”England stares flatly at him. “That was the least subtle thing I’ve ever heard you say, and that is saying a lot.”The fool was undeterred. “No, no, I get it, it’s probably a touchy subject for you -”England felt his eye twitch. Still… no, he shouldn't. Negative reinforcement and all that rot, just like training a puppy.America smiled even wider and went for the kill. “I bet France could pull it off.”
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 102





	1. Chapter 1

England has thought about fucking America over his desk before. Thought about just how he would pin him down, about how he would fist a hand in golden hair and pull until he cried out, about how he would map out the planes of his back and trace the curve of his spine. He’d decided that he wanted America bent over and moaning into the table as he squirmed on his cock, was already fantasizing about sinking his teeth into the place where his shoulder met his neck. 

But then, he’d managed to bind America’s wrists behind him, managed to send him sprawling onto his back on the table and then one thing had led to another and now he had America’s legs hooked over his elbows and he was gripping his hips as he thrust into him with abandon. 

Yes, he supposed that face-to-face wasn't a half-bad way to do it. 

America was charmingly dishevelled. He was still wearing his bomber jacket and dress shirt but England wasn't quite sure when he’d unbuttoned and shoved that shirt to the side. Or how America’s pants were tangled around one ankle, bunched up above one shiny loafer that some hapless president must have spent decades talking America into adopting for meetings. 

He did remember shoving America’s hideous tie ( _ eye-searing red, with an even more offensively yellow  _ cartoon character _ of all things printed on it, did the boy exist solely to vex him, honestly America _ ) into his mouth though. It had been after a particularly loud moan had threatened to alert everyone in the building to their illicit activities. They were probably never going to get the teeth marks out, but it was no great loss. England would consider America’s closet much improved by the absence of the horrid thing.

...Unless he had bought extra. That would be just like America really. At the thought, England hisses and gives a punishingly hard thrust that makes America gasp and arch. Despite the makeshift gag, he also cries out loudly enough that England feels compelled to silence him. So he relinquishes his death grip on America’s hip and reaches forward and -

“ _ Ah _ !” America bucks into him, mercifully muffled by the tie, but still  _ loud _ . Perhaps pinching his nipple hadn't been the best way of shutting him up. Still, England couldn't seem to stop rolling the little nub between his fingers, tugging lightly now and then. America seems to be falling apart under his attentions. His head falls back, throat working and England leans forward, inadvertently forcing his way even deeper until he can suck at the wicked pulse flickering at the base of his throat. 

America makes a delicious noise at that, tilting his head and England would’ve taken the silent invitation, was already moving to lick his way up the column of America’s throat, except that America’s shoulders bunch and he hears the creak of straining leather. “Oi,” England warns him, nipping at his collarbone. “Careful with my belt, idiot.” There’s no  _ or else _ , it’s implied, and England lets the motion of his fingers on America’s nipple make the threat for him; he twists his hand lightly and America’s whole body arches into it. 

His throat bobs too, so England bites him. Hard. Partly to make sure the message had really sunk in, mostly because he’d wanted to. He scrapes his teeth along tender skin and feels the faint vibration under his lips as America groans, nosing aside the tie still looped loosely around America’s neck. 

When he nuzzles the sensitive spot behind his ear, America shudders all over, clamping down so sweetly that England’s hips jerk. “Minx,” he accuses breathlessly. There's nothing for it though, his former tightly controlled rhythm is long gone in a blur of throbbing heat, so he changes tack. 

He hikes one of America’s sweaty legs up onto his shoulder and shifts his hips until he finds an angle that makes America  _ scream _ . 

“For the -” England grinds out, nails digging into America’s hip. He was going to leave marks after this.  _ Good _ . “Be  _ quiet _ !”

Thank god he’d picked an office tucked in a wing of the building no one ever visited. Granted, that meant they didn't actually  _ need  _ to be that discrete, but America didn't know that and he quite enjoyed torturing the boy so.

He supposed it was getting old though. Fucking America was always more fun when he got to hear all the little noises he made. So England released the nipple he’d been tormenting and tugged the tie out of America’s mouth, flicking it idly over his shoulder.

It gets him a soft curious sound, America lolling his head to peer at him with dazed blue eyes. They slid shut at his next thrust, a low moan spilling out of his open mouth, lips tantalisingly red and shiny with spit. England curls his hand around America’s jaw, tugging him into a kiss. He licks into his lax mouth and swallows the sharp cry America makes when he rolls his hips, only pulling away to trail more kisses along his jaw. 

“F-fuck, I -  _ England, _ ” America says, stuttering adorably. “I-I’m so close _ -” _

“Are you now.” England goes on nibbling at his ear. Then, lips curving, he gives a last brutal thrust and goes perfectly,  _ excruciatingly  _ still. America keens desperately, hips bucking like he’s trying to force England to move,  _ move dammit _ .

America’s voice breaks and England hums as he lets go of his jaw, leisurely dragging his hand down America’s chest. He tweaks a nipple on the way down and relishes the way America jolts. He’d clearly guessed its destination and was all but squirming in anticipation, so England decides to be nice and takes America’s cock in hand without teasing him further.

As it was, America moaned so obscenely that England half-expects to pull his hand away dripping. He bites down sharply on America’s neck to get his attention, fingers tightening around the thick base. “Don't come.”

America groans hoarsely, but obeys, sucking in a breath and biting down on his own lip, so England rewards him by sliding his fist along his cock, thumbing at the head, as he starts to rock his hips. Slow shallow thrusts, in time with the movement of his hand, ever-increasingly intense until America finally breaks and  _ begs _ . 

“England, please,  _ fuck  _ I want to- want to come,  _ please  _ -” he sounded  _ wrecked. _

England hisses out a breath and finally,  _ finally  _ let himself plunge into America the way he’d been dying to since they’d stumbled into the room and locked the door. He’s brutal, forcing America’s leg up for a few more precious inches, fucking him so hard that the table creaked under them. America only moaned needily, writhing and gasping every time he hit a particularly pleasurable spot. 

There’s familiar tempting tightness in the pit of his stomach, liquid heat licking at the base of his spine, so he starts jerking America off in earnest, quick frantic pumps as he buries his face into the crook of his neck.  _ Come on, hurry up, I’m - _ until America gives a final mangled moan and climaxes messily over his fingers. _ Oh, thank god _ .

He manages a few more clumsy thrusts before giving in to the haze of sensation, muffling a cry into America’s shoulder as he buried himself to the hilt and finally came.

  
  
  


He collapses limply onto a broad chest. They stay tangled up for a while, breathing heavily, until England blinks the spots out of his eyes and unpeels himself from America. He doesn't get far though. 

America’s legs tightened abruptly around his waist, overbalancing him enough that he tips over and ends up sprawling over America. Again. Scowling reflexively, he braces his hands on the table on either side of his smirking idiot. “What.”

Post-orgasm was a good look for America and he knew it. He was all flushed cheeks and half-lidded blue eyes, swiping a tongue over swollen red lips just begging for - England glared harder. “No,” he says resolutely and doesn't so much as twitch when America runs a socked foot suggestively down the back of his thigh. He  _ doesn't _ . “You aren't goading me into another round; as it is, we’re already late for the three o’clock.”

America pouts. 

Then he smiles. It’s not at all the usual blithe artless thing and England tenses, immediately wary. 

“ _ We-ll _ ,” America sing-songs. “If you don't think you could get it up again, old man…”

England stares flatly at him. “That was the least subtle thing I’ve ever heard you say, and that is saying a  _ lot _ .”

The fool was undeterred. “No, no, I get it, it’s probably a touchy subject for you -”

England felt his eye twitch. Still… no, he shouldn't. Negative reinforcement and all that rot, just like training a puppy.

  
  


America smiled even wider and went for the kill. “I bet France could pull it off.”

  
  


…

England slowly wraps the legs trapping him. America lets him, lips twitching. He doesn't even flinch as England slips out of him, just kicks his pants off his ankle proper and lowers his feet to the ground.

It takes a moment for England to extract a small bundle from his briefcase, retrieved from where it had been tossed haphazardly by the door and promptly dropped by his feet. America eyes it with interest as he opens it, then cackles. “D’you just carry  _ butt plugs  _ around, old man?”

England tucks the package back into his briefcase, unobtrusively slipping the accompanying remote into his pocket. He steps between America’s thighs again, smiling blandly. “I  _ was  _ going to use it on you tonight, but seeing that you’re so eager…”

His smile turns sharp; America notices and swallows, even though his stupid smile doesn't waver until England idly drags the toy over his stomach, liberally coating it with cooling come. It was a new addition to his collection, one that he hadn't used on America yet, and his lover’s curiosity was evident as he shifted to study it. 

England held it up obligingly. It didn't look very remarkable; there was the usual tapered tip that broadened towards the middle and then narrowed at the neck, attached to a flared base. The only difference was in the beads at the plug’s neck, and while it was probably too dim for America to notice, England wasn't about to spoil the surprise. 

So after a few seconds, he pushes the tip to America’s lips until they part and he can slip the toy into his mouth, deliberately smearing white over his lips. “Hold onto it for a moment, dear,” he says evenly, curling a hand into America’s collar to haul him upright. He makes quick work of the restraints and drops his belt onto his briefcase, retrieving the plug as America rolled his shoulders. 

“So how’re we doing this?” The ever-present cheer was in full force; America almost bouncing in anticipation. He should have looked ridiculous, grinning like a loon with his clothes hanging carelessly off his shoulders and swinging his legs like a child. 

England swallows a frisson of heat and plants his free hand on America’s sternum. “On your back again, love.”

He pushes and America goes easily, flopping back and drawing his legs to his chest when England prompts him to. 

“Like that?” America asks, just ever so slightly breathless. As if he’d only just realised how exposed he was like this; splayed out under England’s intent gaze.

England runs a hand over the delectable curve of his arse. “Like that,” he confirms, voice rough.

He swipes at the trails of come that had already leaked out of America, nudging them back. His thumb breaches the loosened rim and America inhales sharply. “P-perv,” he says unsteadily, cock twitching as England presses in. “You,  _ ah _ , like having your come in me that much?”

He was, England noted with some satisfaction, already getting hard again. “I’m not the one already raring for another bout,” he points out mildly, stroking at the tender skin around his entrance. “Eager, aren't we?”

“That’s only ‘cause I'm -not,  _ god _ , as old as -  _ ahh _ !”

England keeps up the light suckling pressure on America’s balls just to make a point, before straightening again with a smirk. “You were saying?”

“Shut it, old man,” America tells him. His thighs were trembling. The hands hooked under his knees were white-knuckled.

In answer, England presses the toy to his balls and switches it on. 

“ _ Ohmygod _ -”

The vibration was set to low, but America spasms, making a sound like he’d just been punched in the gut. Cute. England runs the tip down his perineum and feels him arch, rocking his hips down. He plays with it for a while, teasing America with slow circles around his entrance, just  _ barely  _ slipping the tip in to join his thumb, until he can't ignore the nagging thought of  _ just  _ how late they were for the meeting. Germany was going to murder him. Urgh.

  
  


He takes the toy away, waiting until America’s unfocused eyes drifted back to him. They didn't have  _ time  _ for this, but he draws it out anyway. “Do you want it in you?” 

It takes a moment for America to register the question and another to nod. England smiles, shark-like, and holds out the plug. “I’ll let you have the honours then.”

“I don't, I-I mean, my leg, I can't-” He had reduced America to babbling nonsense. For how annoying the habit normally was, it was immensely satisfying here.

“Relax, love, I’ll help.” They switch; England slipping the toy deftly into America’s right hand and setting his left under America’s knee.

America is clumsy enough that England stops distracting him with his other hand and instead guides his fumbling hand to his own entrance. He isn't nice enough to let America just pop it in though, no, he takes control of the pace. Keeps it agonisingly slow, especially for how America had already been thoroughly stretched earlier, until America was writhing in desperation, whimpering every time England let the toy inch in, only to tug it out again. 

He’s gasping half-formed pleas and slurred syllables before England relents and lets the plug settle snugly into him. He admires the view for a moment, America spread out and mewling into the table, body clenching around the intrusion. The broad base of the toy looked lovely between his cheeks and England fingered it lightly before letting America’s right leg fall limply. 

Taking that as tacit permission, America lets his other leg dangle off the table too. He watches England with half-closed eyes, still panting, but manages a smile. “So? Now what?”

England smiles back. “Now,” he murmurs lowly, running a finger up the length of America’s cock and feeling him shiver. It was fully hard and standing up proudly between his legs, bless his ridiculous stamina. 

  
  


His smile turned evil.

“We’re going to the meeting.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

England makes it more than halfway to the meeting room before America catches up. 

  
  


_ “What the fuck was that?” _

He lets America grab his shoulder and slam him up against the wall, just raises a brow and looks him over appraisingly. 

_ Scandalously dishevelled _ was perhaps the best way of putting it. His belt was unfastened and he hadn't even bothered to zip up his trousers, so they were all but falling off his lean hips. Add that to his mostly untucked shirt and loose tie and he might as well have a flashing neon sign over his head announcing to the world (literally, in their case) just  _ what  _ they had been up to.

At least his buttons weren't misaligned like last time.

  
  


England tsks, reaching up to fix his collar. “Truly, you have no understanding of discretion.”

America bats his hand away, practically steaming with indignation. He was so agitated that he was stumbling over his words. “Of all the - I can't be lieve -! What on-”

It was oddly endearing. 

But mostly amusing. England’s lips twitched. “Are you finished?”

“No!” And there was the wall slam. England didn't even blink as America slapped his hands to the wall on either side of his head, breathing hard. In the relative quiet following that as America’s mouth worked like he was trying to decide what to say next, England caught the faint buzzing sound. 

Both his eyebrows shot up. “You’re still wearing it.”

If it were possible, America went even redder. “Shut up!”

“Just an observation, dear.”

  
  


Still, America didn't stop him this time as he started briskly redoing his atrocious tie, just loomed with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes. It did nothing to disguise America’s erection pressing into his thigh, but England chose not to point it out. Instead, he slid the knot up to America’s throat and started straightening his jacket. 

  
  


“What the hell are you playing at?” America finally demanded. England was almost impressed that America had lasted until he started smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt. He smiled placidly, feeling the slight twitching of muscle under his palms. “Making you presentable for the meeting.”  _ Obviously _ . 

It starts a tic in America’s jaw. Bonus.

“Oh, come now,” he says placatingly, sliding one hand up to bury in golden hair to cover for how he slips the other into his pocket. “How about a game, hmm?”

“What.” America resists when he tugs at his hair.

“A game, love.” He presses his knee up, feels America suck in a breath. 

“Why.” It was sulky. England lets him get away with it though. His fingers curled around the remote. He tugs again, more insistently, until their faces were a hair's-breadth apart and he could breathe his words onto America’s lips. “Because of  _ this _ ?”

He presses a button and America jolts as if stung. “Wha-  _ oh _ .”

“Like that?”

America makes a strangled sound, swaying dangerously. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” England turns the vibration up a notch and is then forced to catch America as his legs buckle. If his hand lands squarely on America’s arse in the process, well, that was pure happenstance. And if he gave it a good hard  _ squeeze _ , well, America certainly wasn't complaining.

(He was too busy moaning.)

England savours it. “Never come across a rimming plug before?” He asks lightly, raking his nails across America’s scalp and feeling him shudder. “I bought it especially for you, love. I know how much you like having my mouth on you.”

He applies fractionally more pressure with his knee and watches America’s lashes flutter behind his lopsided glasses. “Now then, about that game…” 

A low groan as he spread his legs. “Fuc _ king _ , fine,  _ yes _ , just keep doing  _ that _ .”

“Watch your mouth, brat.” England pinches his arse and he yelps. “Where was I… Oh, yes, make it through the rest of that meeting without coming in your pants and I’ll let you find out what else the toy up your arse does.”

“Oh y-yeah?” 

England nips sharply at his lower lip. “What, not tempting enough for you?” He takes advantage of America’s unfastened belt and trousers to shove a hand into his boxers. “There's a second part to that toy, y’know. Attaches right  _ here  _ -” he jostles the base of the plug roughly and America gasps. “- and curves right over  _ this _ .” He strokes a finger over his perineum. 

America whimpered. 

“And then, if you’re good, I might even get on my knees for you. Suck your cock til you’re begging for mercy.” England kisses him then, hard and fast. A brief flash of searing heat as he shoves his tongue into America’s mouth, and then spins them around to shove America into the wall instead, knocking the air from his lungs. “Sound good?”

America’s laugh comes out a breathless wheeze. “ _ You _ ... you’re fucking nuts.”

“S’not a no, lad.” England withdraws his hands, goes about fixing America’s wayward clothing.

“As if I would, after  _ that _ .” 

England can't help it; he preens a little. America looked so deliciously mussed, colour high in his cheeks, fresh marks peppered all over his throat. He was leaning on the wall like it was the only thing keeping him from toppling over, which - also flattering.

  
  


He flashes his teeth. “Shall we, then?”


	3. Chapter 3

America should really know better by now. It was practically written into the guidebook for How to Deal with Nations (which honest-to-god did exist; he’d heard the president talking about it once). Important stuff like, _don't get into staring contests with Russia._ _Avoid the hockey rink at all costs when Canada is on the court._

  


_ Never accept challenges from England. _

  
  


He shifts in his seat and pretends not to notice Germany glaring when it creaks noisily. Breathes, in through the nose, out through the mouth. It doesn't really help when the toy up his ass abruptly changes settings, but at least it reminds him not to breathe too loudly.

  


England’s watching him.  _ He’s  _ perfectly composed, of course, not so much as a hair out of place and by all appearances, giving the presentation his utmost attention. The fact that he only has one hand on the table probably wasn't even of note to anyone but America. Then again, he  _ was  _ sitting right next to the man, which had been the cause of an embarrassing amount of internal squealing back during his infatuation stage. Good times. Present America kinda wanted to go back and smack some sense into his past self and maybe one of the founding fathers.  _ Just America,  _ he’d say _. None of that ‘United States of’ crap.  _ Then maybe he could get through this stupid meeting without getting maimed by the sheer smugness radiating off the man every time America twitched or coughed or crossed and uncrossed his legs. Damned alphabetical seating arrangements.

  


The vibration goes up another level and America clears his throat obnoxiously to cover the tiny groan that slips out through his clenched teeth. Another glare from Germany, which wasn't even half as effective as the gentle disappointment in the look Japan gives him from the podium where he's presenting on… something. America tries not to wither, or look like he hasn't listened to a single word for the entire duration of the meeting. Because he had been. Listening, that it.   


  


America glances at England and yup, there he was, smirking away. ‘ _ Cut it out’  _ he mouths at him when Germany wasn't looking. It was absolutely not the way to deal with England on one of his power trips and America knows it, but he’s frazzled and wound up and about to chew through his lip soon if England didn't stop fucking  _ teasing _ . 

  


Definitely the wrong move. England tilts his head, blinking innocently and that’s all the warning America gets before the rimming function starts up again. Oh god. He disguises his momentary spasm as a stretch and very determinedly presses his mouth shut. 

  
  


How long had it been since they slunk in part-way through the meeting? An hour? Two?

  
  


More of that  _ exquisite  _ sucking sensation. America sucks in a breath and tugs at his collar like he could actually loosen it more after already unfastening the top two buttons. It was probably cold in here - some of the more tropical nations had broken out the jackets - but America was acutely aware of the sweat dripping down his temples. 

  
  


He drifts for a while, any incriminating noises locked safely in his throat, watching distantly as Japan hands over the clicker to Switzerland, who passes it to France, and on and on as he sat there quietly and burnt up from the inside.

  
  


\----

  


It’s the scraping of chairs throughout the room that jars him back to attention. Ah. A break. 

  


Canada was coming over even though his seat was nearer to the door and he had to shoulder through the herd of nations probably running off for coffee or tea or contraband alcohol. America’s so out of it that what that means doesn't sink in until Canada’s right in front of him and leaning over to poke his forehead.

  


“America? Are you feeling okay?”

  


He tries for his usual grin. “Yep, never better.” His voice cracks. England’s laughing silently at him. He just knows it. Canada doesn't look the slightest bit convinced.

  


America very deliberately does not look at England. “Really, ‘m fine.”

  


He fishes for a distraction and - “Oh hey look it’s France!” - jumps onto one in the form of France weaving his way over before he remembers that a) France could sniff out salacious activity from a mile away, b) he was sitting here with a vibrating plug up the ass, and c) England was sitting over there with a smile like the cat that had gotten the cream. (Or had left his warming America’s insides.)

  


Canada waves him off distractedly before zeroing back in on America. “You were pretty late today and… why is your face so red?”

  


“Is it?” America squeaks. He’s always been crap at excuses. And now two of the people that had known him longest were going to tag-team him in an interrogation. Wait, just one; France was just getting something from his seat.

  


England saves him. Did it count since it was technically his fault though? “He left a few documents back at the house and only noticed when we were on the freeway, so we had to turn back. And as for the face, well,” he scoots his chair over to pinch America’s cheek patronisingly. Right, no thank-you blowjob for him. Even if he  _ did  _ want England’s cock. Up his ass or in his mouth; America wasn't feeling picky. Christ, he was needy. 

  


“He’s been looking a little under the weather lately… I’ll probably shuffle him off to bed after the meeting.” He was so  _ blas _ _ é _ . America was kinda jealous, even though the double entendre hadn't been lost on him. 

  


Canada was nodding, even though his face was doing something weird. His eyes were ping-ponging between them. Was that a blush? “If you're taking care of it then?”

  


“Oh, but of course.” England's smile might have been too sharp, but Canada was already turning away and heading for the door.

  


It had hardly clicked shut before America’s chair was being spun around lazily, England setting a knee on the seat between his legs. The shark-like smile was on full display now and it probably said a  _ lot  _ about America’s state of mind that just seeing it made his breath hitch. 

  


Or maybe he was just a masochist. Would explain a lot.  


  


“That was rather pathetic, love.” 

  


“Mmm?” America may or may not have been staring at his mouth. He sinks down in his chair a little when England braces an arm on the backrest, only to suck in a breath. He’d forgotten about the knee. The mounting pressure on his already painful erection was another thing clamouring for his attention and America tries to focus on what England’s saying, he really does, but it’s too late.

  


A faint click that seems to echo through the empty room and America’s back arches. “A-ah…”

  


England shushes him with a vicious glint in his eyes. “Do try to listen when I’m speaking, America.”

  


He’s unbuttoning America’s shirt. Why was he unbuttoning America’s shirt. America tries to help but England swats his fumbling fingers away. “Hands behind your head… yes, just hold onto the headrest like that, love.”

  


Another click and America whines in protest as the ever-present buzz inside him gives way to jarring stillness. 

  


“Oh, don't make that face, I just didn't want you distracted for this.” England’s pulling his shirt open, leaving his chest bare for a nail to flick lightly at his left nipple. It stings and America’s hands clench involuntarily, but he bites his lip and takes it silently. 

  


England pouts good-naturedly at the lack of response and that alone probably should’ve tipped America off, since England doesn't do  _ playful  _ unless he had something up his sleeve. 

  
  


Somehow he's still caught by surprise when England produces a set of clamps with a flourish. 

  


“I - can't fucking  _ believe  _ you -” 

  


There’s a joke to be made here, something to poke at the fucking Erotic Ambassdor’s seeming habit of bringing fucking _ sex toys _ to fucking  _ world meetings, _ and a bubble of slightly hysterical laughter climbing up his throat but all that comes out is a stuttered gasp as England pinches his nipple and fits the toy on it by sliding the little toggle bead down. 

  


America tenses reflexively but… Huh, it was pretty light. Fit smugly without pinching too. That was new. England favoured clover clamps, going by how often he made America squirm with them. He studies the clamps with more interest. They weren't too big but he was pretty sure that those were bullet vibrators under the silicone covers. This was going to be interesting. And by  _ interesting _ , he meant  _ torturous _ .

  


The other clamp goes on and England leans back to admire his work. 

  


“How is it? Not too tight?”

  


America makes a non-committal noise, gritting his teeth as England fiddles with the clamps, making sure they won't slip off. 

  


“Turning them on now.” 

  


Nice of him, for the warning. Probably an anticipation technique. America clamps his lips together but that doesn't stop his full-body shudder as the toy hums to life. 

  


It takes a second, but then.

  
  


Oh _. Oh god.  _

  


The moan tears through his throat. America was pretty sure he saw stars. Especially when the plug was switched back on and christ, there was that feeling again, like, like - He goes boneless, slumping down in his chair and oh fuck that  _ knee  _ -

  


“Careful there,” England says easily. He sounded very far away. America’s head lolls and he feels a hand tip his chin up. “Won't want you missing out tonight, hmm?”

  


What was he… oh, the game. America moans again, almost past caring as his hips tilt, rocking into that wonderful pressure. 

  


England clicks his tongue.

  


“You really are quite terrible at this.” It sounded fond. “Up now, the others will be returning shortly.”

  
  


America’s brain was sluggish but then the meaning sunk in and he inhaled sharply. “W-wait, you mean..? You can't just-” 

  


“Oh, I  _ can, _ ” fingers on the very tip of his nipple, pinching  _ hard _ , “and I  _ will _ .” 

  


And then England’s gone in a swirl of movement, leaving him gasping raggedly with his shirt wide open and two vibrating clamps attached very obviously to his nipples. 

  


“But I’m, they’ll see I- England, what the  _ fuck _ !”

  


A smirk. “I’d suggest zipping up your jacket. It might even hide the marks on your neck.” A beat as America spluttered incoherently. Then - “Post-haste, if you would. China is about to open the door.”

  
  


\----

  


The rest of the meeting was a blur. 

  


America had huddled in his jacket like a turtle retreating in its shell. The position was murder on his neck and he was sweating buckets, but necessary now that he knew that England had left  _ marks _ ,  _ no fucking wonder Canada had been acting weird. _

  


He hadn't had time to button up his shirt earlier and he loved his jacket, he  _ did, _ but the scratchy inner lining was all sorts of torture because how the clamps had been attached meant the tips of his nipples were jutting out and every time America so much as shifted or twitched or  _ breathed _ , head spinning from the relentless buzz of the vibrator against his nipples, the sensitive flesh scraped against the fabric in a dizzying rush that stole his breath. 

  
  


And the plug.  _ That fucking plug _ . How many vibration patterns did it  _ have _ ? 

  
  


He didn't know how he must have looked to everyone else, but if anyone had asked any questions, he hadn't heard them.  He had no idea how long the meeting had gone on either. Or, hell, if there had even been a meeting. There was just the muted wash of white noise in his ears and the too-fast thudding of his pulse stretching on for infinity, and then he blinked and it was over and people were packing up and chatting as they streamed out the door in twos and threes. 

  


Another blink and the room was empty and someone was standing behind him and there was a slim hand around his neck. It constricts, cutting off his air for half a second before England releases him and saunters back around to perch on the table. 

  


His lips were moving. A question? 

  


England considers him for a moment when he doesn't do anything more than stare blankly. Then he reaches out - 

  


Grips his nipple -

  


And  _ twists _ .

  
  


That little haze of false tranquillity  _ shatters  _ and the rest of the world snaps back in focus with all the force of a runaway truck. America reels.

  


“Paying attention now?”

  


“ _ You bastard- _ ”

  


England swings his leg up and then his foot is pressing  _ right  _ over America’s straining cock. America chokes. 

  


“Language, dear.”

  


_ “ _ Oh _ , fuck _ you, you - _ ” fucking sadist. _

  


That foot grinds down and America shudders so violently he almost falls off his chair. 

  


He makes a sort of thin, high-pitched whine when England drops roughly into his lap, shifting to straddle him, grinding his full weight right over his groin. His cock pressed into America’s stomach, hard and heavy and insistent as England thrusts his hips, pinning America to his seat as his hands come up to toy and pluck at the clamps. It makes America writhe, crying out as the throbbing ache spikes unbearably, an intoxicating cocktail of pleasure and pain that scorches every nerve ending. 

  


“F-fuck,  _ England, please _ …”

  


“What a remarkable turnabout.” England’s mocking him and rutting against him and all America wants is to do is fucking  _ come _ already. 

  


His hands fist in England’s suit jacket, probably wrinkling it horribly, but America doesn't care. “ _ Please _ , I need -” He clenches involuntarily around the fullness of the plug still buzzing away merrily inside him and moans as it just makes the sensation of the moving beads more intense. “K-kiss me.”

  


England obliges for once and America loses himself willingly to the slick glide of their mouths, groans throatily as England coaxes his head back, doing something with his tongue that makes America’s toes curl. 

  


Then he's gone again, sitting back as his fingers do something with the vibrating clamp fixed to America’s nipple and - 

  


It tightens, tightens and  _ twists  _ so sharply that America seizes, only  _ just  _ managing to muffle a scream by stuffing a fist in his mouth and biting down. 

  


“Don't you dare.” England catches his wrist and tears his hand away. His eyes were wildly dilated and he was already fumbling with the next clamp. “I want to -  _ christ _ , just make that  _ sound  _ again.”

  


Another twist, another bolt of searing pleasure and  _ pain  _ and America short-circuits. There were fireworks exploding behind his eyes, rattling around in his head and he doesn't know what kind of jumbled nonsense was pouring out of his mouth as he comes so hard he blacks out.

  
  


\----

  
  


They're still on that chair, still in the empty meeting room when America’s brain comes back online. England's still draped over him, arms around his shoulders, his breath stirring America’s hair. S’nice. America still feels like someone had hollowed him out with a melon scooper and then slapped everything back in upside down but England’s weight is comforting. Grounding him since his head doesn't seem connected to his neck. 

  


He must’ve felt America shift; a second later, the hand carding absently through his hair stops and England’s sitting back to inspect him. America hadn't even noticed it there but now he wants it back and butts his head against it until England takes the hint and goes on petting him. 

  


“Aren't you affectionate today?” There was a secret smile in his voice, a hidden curve to his mouth, and America’s feeling loose and relaxed enough that he fancies he could just lean in and taste it. So he does, England’s other hand coming up to cup his jaw.

  


By the time he pulls away from the lazy kiss, America’s marginally more conscious and increasingly aware of the damp patch at his crotch. And the lack of a corresponding one at England's.

  


“...Why am I the only one sittin’ here with cum dripping in my boxers.”

  


England’s mellow enough to laugh; a real one, bright with mirth. It’s a nice sound, America just kinda wishes it could be at someone else’s expense for once. He mock-glares and England drops a kiss to the corner of his lips before hopping off his lap. 

  


He unzips his trousers and - 

America wants to hit him. “What the flying  _ fuck,  _ when did you have time to put on a  _ condom _ ?”

  


He kicks half-heartedly at his sneaky, scheming  _ snake  _ of a boyfriend, huffing as England dodges him easily, still snickering as he peels off the latex and ties it off. 

  


_ “Don't drop it in the bin, what is wrong with you?” _ America screeches at him, mortified, and England laughs harder as he comes back.

  


“It’s hardly the worst thing the cleaning staff has seen, didn't you hear about what happened in meeting room three -”

  


_ “No, and we’re keeping it that way!”  _ America buries his burning face in his hands as England pulls him to his feet, wincing as he feels the plug shift slightly at the movement. At least the clamps were off.

  


“Shame. It was rather ‘epic’ as you say across the pond. France was caught with -”

  


“England!”

  


“Your brother was involved, I hear -”

  


“ _ **ENGLAND**_!”

**Author's Note:**

> ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> Unbeta'd so any errors are my own, feel free to point any out.
> 
> Comments/ concrit would be welcome, but please be nice, it's my first time posting!
> 
> EDIT: I figured out italics and went back to fix chap 1 and 2


End file.
